The Dangerous Alliance’s pre-match huddle, with everyone discussing strategy while Steve Austin tries to keep the cameraman away, adds so much to the presentation and stakes of the match. It makes the match feel so important. It makes the wrestlers feel invested. It feels like the opening moments of an NBA Finals Game 7. And then the bell rings.
Barry Windham and Steve Austin are perfect choices to start. Two incredible wrestlers, they provide the match with a through line from beginning to end. And then every new entrant somehow raises the excitement even higher. For the first five minutes it’s Austin and Windham, then here comes Rick Rude. Then Ricky Steamboat. Then Arn Anderson. Then Dustin Rhodes. Then Larry Zbyszko. Then god damn Sting. The match is absolutely loaded with all-time talent, and every entrance feels like another atomic bomb being dropped onto the battlefield.
There is an 11th character in this match, too. No, it’s not Paul E., and no, it’s not Madusa. It’s the cage itself, and it is just as important as any wrestler involved. The older, lower WarGames cage creates such a sense of claustrophobia that modern versions never quite replicate. Modern cage matches often feel obsessed with height and the possibility, and inevitability, of somebody jumping off it. Here, the cage is incredibly suffocating. There’s nowhere to hide. Nowhere to escape to. One of my favorite moments of the match that helps exemplify the claustrophobia of it all is Sting military pressing Rude into the ceiling. Such a simple spot, and not only does it god damn rule, but it reinforces that sinking feeling.
The action itself is rarely flashy. There are no elaborate sequences or spectacular high spots. It’s punches. It’s kicks to the gut. It’s throwing somebody headfirst into a cage. It’s stretching an opponent while he’s bleeding all over the canvas. It’s Pro Wrestling and it’s fucking beautiful. The lack of weapons helps enormously too. Outside of Paul E. Dangerously’s telephone, and the turnbuckle, the violence simply comes from the wrestlers and the cage itself. Nobody is waiting around for the next big stunt or contrived weapon spot. The fight simply continues. Punches, kicks, cage shots, blood, submissions. This isn’t a collection of high spots that modern versions of this match can fall into. This is a desperate struggle to kick the other team’s ass or die trying. And the blood only adds to that feeling. Maybe it’s the blue canvas, I don’t know, but blood somehow always looked better in WCW. By the end, with everyone battered and bleeding, the match feels so desperate. It’s life or death.
In a lot of ways, the structure of this match is a little cliché. The heels gain advantages, the babyfaces fight from underneath, the violence escalates, and eventually everything explodes into chaos. But it’s cliché because this is the match that established the formula. It is what Die Hard is to action movies. What The Godfather is to mafia movies. This is the blueprint. Countless WarGames matches borrowed from it, but very few if any have ever managed to fully recreate what made this one special. One of those reasons is the crowd. The Jacksonville crowd is incredible throughout, popping for every entrant and reacting to every momentum swing like their lives depend on it. Fully behind the babyface team finally kicking the asses of the dastardly heels.
More than anything, this feels like war. Not a yearly tradition to get out of the way. Not an obligation on the calendar. A genuine feud ender between two groups that cannot coexist any longer. That’s what makes it the greatest WarGames match ever, and why so many attempts to recreate it have fallen short.
WCW should’ve won.
5 STARS